


Smoldering Embers

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Fëanorian Week 2018 [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brothers, Family, Family Feels, Feanorian week, Flashbacks, Fëanorian Week 2018, Gen, Siblings, a bit sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: In Thargelion, Caranthir reflects upon his brothers and the past.- written for Fëanorian Week 2018





	Smoldering Embers

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt fill for:** "Ooh for Feanorian week can you write something about Caranthir and his opinions on his brothers? We always need more Caranthir"
> 
> **Note:** I go with the Shibboleth version of the Ambarussa with Amrod being the younger of the twins, dying at Losgar.

 

**Smoldering Embers**

*

The pitch-black darkness of the night and little to no sleep had never truly bothered Caranthir. In fact, he much preferred to work throughout the night when all around him was quiet and soundly asleep. Neither servants nor couriers would disturb him at such an ungodly hour – not that they disturbed him often during the day. His outbursts full of spirit had taken care of that soon after having taken up residence in Thargelion.

A bundle of papers, crumbling and yellow with age already, sat beside the cushion made out of different furs in front of the fireplace and there they remained untouched as the burning fire transformed to smoldering embers. Idly, Caranthir sat in front of it, lost in memories of days long gone by; memories of days, in which a fire meant nothing else than warmth and comfort. Even now, after so many years, the ghostly screams from the flames spoke to him, just as they had on far too many nights to count.

_Amrod._

_The youngest._

Overwhelmed by memories flashing through his brain, Caranthir buried his head in his trembling hands.

_Amrod._ His beloved little brother, who would always come to him whenever quarrels with his twin had gotten out of hand (which they often had). Actually, both Ambarussa would come to him with their troubles, though Amrod did so far more frequently.

Amrod, who would sob at Caranthir’s shoulder until the world was well again and the tears had dried upon his rosy cheeks. Then, the tiny fingers would brushing over Caranthir’s own cheeks, tracing the irregular patterns of his freckles.

_‘I’m jealous Moryo!’_ Amrod had said more than once in his adorable childish pouting, _‘I want ‘em, too.’_

_‘No you don’t,’_ had always been Caranthir’s initial thought; he hated his freckles, probably more than anything, but he had never said so to Amrod. He had always opted for, _‘In time you might.’_

Gesturing wildly, Amrod would say, _‘But I am already thaaaaat tall.’_

And then, Caranthir had laughed and Amrod had joined in, the drama over the non-existent freckles forgotten.

Though he was usually reluctant about physical contact of any sort, repulsed by it even, much to the delight of Curufin and source of many a crude joke, he allowed it for the twins. And more than that, he even took comfort in it as he breathed in the soft smell of his youngest brother’s hair. Sometimes, arms tightly wrapped around Amrod’s body, he wondered if Maedhros had ever felt the same when he himself had come to him, having yet again suffered from one of Curufin’s distasteful pranks.

_Curufin._

Though older than Curufin, Caranthir was by the favorite victim of Curufin’s mockery whenever Finrod wasn’t around.

Quick to anger. Perfect to tease.

_The odd one_ , as Curufin had never failed to mention.

_The weird one_ , had Celegorm joined in with a hearty laugh.

He wanted to slap them both, had often thought of it, but never done it. He would not allow himself to be pulled down to their level.

_‘Mudbrains,’_ he had thought then, though he knew it wasn’t true, at least not for Curufin. 

_Maedhros and Maglor._

For many years, Caranthir had envied them for their unconditional friendship.

_Celegorm and Curufin._

He had envied them, too, though he thought their bond to be often toxic, but it was a friendship nevertheless.

Only after the birth of the twins he had been able to come to terms with the envy he resented, even if he had remained Curufin’s favorite target.

 

*

In their temporary dwelling at the shores of Lake Mithrim, things had begun to change and old quarrels were buried.

It had to be so, simply to ensure survival. 

Robbed of the comfortable routine of their spoiled lives, there had been no time for pranks and childish idiocy, no time for harping and useless merriment. Mollycoddled by their family’s wealth and the safety of the blessed realm, such hardship was new and not always easy to accept.

To Caranthir it had been clear as the lake before him; to survive meant to work and exist as one, not working against each other. In their need they had combined their talent, strengths, and effort efforts to secure the family’s survival.

They managed as best they could, and for the first time, each of their talents truly did matter.

Though Caranthir had seen Celegorm’s pleasure hunts in the vast forests in Oromë’s company as a useless idleness, now his skill for hunting and the knowledge of herbs proved extremely valuable. Seldom did they have to leave dinner hungry. In Aman, Celegorm would have boosted in arrogance that he ensured the family’s well-being, whereas here he did not. Naturally he was still proud, yet the attitude of the parading peacock had somehow become lost upon their journey

Little wonder, Caranthir thought with much amusement as he sipped his wine, with neither lads nor ladies having been around to impress. In truth, no matter how exhausting Celegorm’s behavior could be, Caranthir had been more than once a little jealous of his brother’s incredible self-assurance and his ability to talk, and talk, and talk, no matter whom he spoke to. 

Now Caranthir thought about it with the knowledge of the years, he was quite certain that all Celegorm's posing was concealing insecurities. He had witnessed many of those from Celegorm, especially when Maedhros had returned from Angband close to death.

He had never told Celegorm what he had realized. Celegorm would only deny it loudly, yet somehow such knowledge had made handling him much easier. To Caranthir’s astonishment they actually got along fairly well, at least as long Curufin was not present.

_Curufin._

Somehow he had become Caranthir’s bane and it had surprised him not that their lands were as far away from each other as possible.

That it was for the best, Maedhros knew most of all.

No, Caranthir did not exactly hate Curufin, had never hated him, at least not in the literal sense of the word. Because no matter what, they were brothers – family. And weren’t brothers meant to quarrel and be at peace afterwards again? It had never been Caranthir’s fault that the drama went on for many days. He was quick to anger, but even quicker to calm down, whereas Curufin carried a grudge against him forever. In fact, Caranthir didn’t know anyone who was so extraordinarily resentful as Curufin.

No, he had never hated him.

With the exception of one night – the night Maedhros, partly recovered from the horrors of Angband, had announced that he would surrender kingship and give the crown to their uncle.

The announcement had come quite as a surprise. At least, that was what Caranthir had thought then. Now, recalling the days before, perhaps it had not been; they just had been too blind and reluctant to see.

The night had been deadly silent as they stared at Maedhros in disbelief. True, they had not been exactly content with their leader’s decision, the fact shining evident from each pair of eyes, but deep inside they all knew it was just and right.

All except for Curufin.

Caranthir had never seen him like this before, or ever after. The same fey laughter that had tumbled from their father’s mouth as he had set the ships ablaze now shone from Curufin’s eyes, which glittered golden and malicious.

A fist had landed on the table as Curufin had screamed, _‘Betrayer!’_

The silence that had followed had been deadly until Celegorm had spoken.

Even now, thinking of it, anger flashed across Caranthir’s face – and surprise as he remembered Celegorm’s attempt to talk reason into Curufin.

Curufin would not listen. _‘Keep your mouth shut, Tyelko,’_ he had cried at Celegorm, then had turned again towards Maedhros, fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly, _‘Our father’s precious heirloom! The gems lost, the crown usurped! Thrown away, by his eldest son, our father’s true heir!’_

Maedhros, diplomatic as ever, had Curufin’s verbal outburst wash over him, jaw set. Though Caranthir knew Maedhros's calm had not been what it seemed. Nothing about it had been diplomatic. Rather, it was stoic as if he had trained for it. Caranthir knew he had. The silence and the defensiveness as Maedhros had simply regarded him with tired eyes had sparked Curufin’s temper all the more.

Celegorm had thought it was over then. Caranthir had known better. It had been the calm before the storm.

Swallowing hard, Curufin’s rage had reached a peak none of them had thought possible, yelling furiously at Maedhros, _‘You had better stayed where you were – dead.’_

It had been then that Caranthir had completely and utterly lost his temper in a way he never had before. Without thinking twice he back-handed Curufin with all his strength, hitting hard enough to draw blood. A feeling of a strange satisfaction flowing through his veins followed immediately after.

A terrible silence reigned as Caranthir had waited for Curufin to lunge at him. He never had. Many emotions sparked in Curufin’s eyes, as he had risen his hand to carefully touch his cheek, hurt and pain, shock, but most of all surprise before they leveled out into something far more familiar – vengeance. It had not come, not that day as Curufin had simply stormed out of the tent, with Celegorm following on his heels, nor any other.

When Maedhros asked him, later, Caranthir said he did not regret his actions. It was true, he did not. He had never before assaulted one of his brother’s physically, nor ever did again. But then, never again had tempers flared as on that night.

The truth of it was that Caranthir had become strangely protective over Maedhros after his return from Morgoth’s claws, perhaps in an attempt to repay his brother’s kindness when he was a child. He had been taking alternating shifts with Maglor to watch over Maedhros’s troubled sleep, would help him bathe and clean his wounds day after day.

Caranthir had never been one for scheming. He hadn’t been telling Maedhros half-truths to make him feel better. He knew that such behavior was the last thing Maedhros wished for, no matter how miserable his state was. Despite his injuries he was strong, at least mentally and during the days. The nights had been a different matter entirely.

Maedhros had always appreciated brutal honesty, and willingly Caranthir spoke openly to him about those wounds that would not heal and what he said when nightmares took hold of him. 

In response, and much to Caranthir’s surprise, Maedhros slowly had begun to tell him many horrid details of his captivity whenever they had been alone. On these nights, Caranthir had hardly said a word, but had listened endless hours to strings of words that had been interrupted by sobbing, Maedhros’s shaven head resting against his shoulder. To himself he had whispered _‘never again’_ as he had held Maedhros close to him as once he had been held. 

And he had meant it. Means it still.

Never again shall such harm come to Maedhros or any other of his brothers. Dispute or not, after all they were family.

Staring into the smoldering embers, his thoughts continued to travel.

They had all changed.

One by one, they had changed, and kept changing still.

Though it was Maglor who had changed the most of all. It was something that still surprised Caranthir at times. He hadn’t thought it would be him, because next to Maedhros he had deemed him to be the most emotionally stable of the brothers. A mistake, perhaps.

_Maglor._

Poetic, gentle Maglor, with hands soft as moss; charming and eloquent Maglor, who had clad his body only in the noblest fineries whenever he had been walking Tirion’s streets in the light of the mingling. Often, Maglor would chide Celegorm for his careless appearance at the dinner table, clothes caked with mud (and fluids far worse than that), with black grind under his nails.

_An idle life._

_A dreamer’s life._

Just like a flower of spring died of late snowfall, Maglor’s beauty had withered and waned under the bleak sky. The poet had become a deadly solider.

Beneath Maglor’s armor, always caked with speckles of dried blood, his clothes were mere rugs, perforated with holes, his once neatly braided hair more often than not a tangled mess. At one point, Maglor simply had stopped caring.

_‘What use is there in cladding myself in illusions of better days long gone by?’_ Maglor had once said to Curufin when questioned about his appearance over Maedhros’s sickbed, shrugging.

In contrast to Curufin, who absolutely had disagreed, Caranthir had smiled, for it was true.

Where once soft fingers had played the harp, now rough callouses spread across Maglor’s  palms, and just as the musician himself has changed, have the songs.

Songs, which once spoke of merriment and unconditional love and other romantic follies of the sort that made Caranthir shudder in disgust, now carried the sadness and melancholy of their tragic lives.

These songs were not meant to be sung in the silver halls of Tirion below the ever tinkling bells, yet sometimes Caranthir imagined how they would sound there – and then laughed. Their melancholic songs were so entirely unbefitting to the bliss and beauty of Aman, their ragged appearances and battle-worn and sun-stained skin would stand out so amidst the finery of Tirion’s population.

It would be quite the scandal.

But then, hadn’t their lives become a scandal in themselves, after having sworn the Oath, having forfeited eternal happiness?

A knock against the heavy door tore Caranthir out of his musing and just as he was about to yell _‘Be gone,’_ he thought better of it, remembering that he had guests, and opted for the neutral, “Who is it?”

“Moryo, it is me. _Telvo._ ” A pause. “May I come in?”

_Telvo._

Of all the brothers it was Amras who has barely changed. Though grown and matured by hardship and the tragedy that Losgar had been, he did not sound much different than in his childhood days. 

“You may,” Caranthir answered, not so neutral anymore. As the large door swung open, he smiled and beckoned his brother to come closer.

“Thank you,” Amras said, returning the smile in the crooked manner that was so typical for him, “I couldn’t sleep…”

There was no need for Amras to speak further as Caranthir held out his arms so that his youngest brother could snuggle against his shoulder just the way he had often done when nightly terrors had haunted his sleep.

Many things had changed and were still about to change in their lives, yet some simply did not, and for that, Caranthir was grateful, letting his hand run through his brother’s hair.

Perhaps that night even he would find sleep, for a few hours forgetting the sound of Amrod’s screams.

 

* 

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks @bunn for the beta read <3


End file.
